


The Revenants

by Diaph



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alpha Anya (The 100), Alpha Lexa, Alpha Luna, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, BDSM, Commander Lexa, F/F, Light BDSM, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Clarke, Omega Octavia Blake, Omega Raven, Supernatural Elements, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2018-12-15 19:45:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11812920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diaph/pseuds/Diaph
Summary: Clarke is a recently turned vampire who has turned up in Lexa's city. Lexa, the commander of the covenant, takes pity on the strange beautiful creature who has been lurking quietly in her territory and decides to take her in. When she finds out just how recently it is that Clarke has been converted she is at a loss. As the only vampire left with the strength and power to convert new revenants, Lexa cannot help but wonder who turned Clarke and what exactly it is they want. One thing is for certain, the ageless commander of revenants never anticipated on falling in love with this mysterious girl.





	1. Chapter I

Above the constant static hum of Manhattan, upon the roof of your building, existing as an onlooker, a voyeur of sorts, you watch twinkling lights that stretch out to the water's edge melt into nothing but a warm glow beneath the moon and do little else besides breathe.

You close your eyes and listen to the ripple of sins as if they were the melody of the city. Perhaps they were just that; each sin had its own particular staccato and vibration that moved through your soul — some sins were faint and almost melodic, and god, you wished your days could just solely be filled with those tiny little niggles that itched the air inside your chest. The niggles existed as the ghosts of lustful glances and unpaid parking fines, among other tiny forgivable offences, and they almost felt pleasant.

But the tiny little niggles were rare, especially in your line of work as a private investigator. Instead, you were left with the cacophony of the worst of the worst: missing women who would never be found — they were a long crescendo that rattled around in your soul and only grew sharper the closer you got to the perpetrator. And each missing girl became a thumping pain in your throat that wouldn't dissipate until you found the persons responsible for the crime, and then, watched them sulk away from the courtroom in the chains and handcuffs they would rot beneath. Well. The ones you didn’t get to before the police at least.

Dealing with cheating husbands and desperate housewives wasn’t so bad, if you could have a lifetime of the quiet achiness their sins temporarily left on your heart, you would take it gladly.

It's the kids who are the worst to deal with, which, really, goes without saying for any kind of detective or investigator… even the ones who don’t have your curse. Whenever a picture of a long-since forgotten missing child crossed your desk and you looked into their big innocent eyes, feeling nothing but that dreaded sharp pain and the brief flash of their mortal end, there were no noises or vibrations within your ageless soul for those sins, or even hollow aches in all the strange and different places in your body. No, the sin was too monumental for any of that.

Instead, a vicious hatred bubbled and eroded the pleura of your lungs as if you had no use for breathing, your throat would betray you next, always your throat, and a low violent growl would rip out of your mouth as if you were more demon than woman. It’s those cases that make you lose control, and control is what you’ve exerted expertly for three millennia.

It's mortal sins like those ones that you gladly kill for without remorse or hesitation. If only, selfishly, to make the merciless hot burning inside of your skin go away. In the end, it was that reason above the many others why you had to leave the homicide division and the precinct behind. You can deal with the missing girls, awful as that may be. But the children? You don't have many more of those cases left in you before the parts of you that are ostensibly human completely rot away and leave you with nothing but darkness. Nothing but the torment of your truest nature.

The squeaky creak of the door that leads out onto the roof opens, and the knowledge you have company distracts you from those sad thoughts and replaces them with the desire to slump forward with a sigh, because now, the jig is up. You’ve been caught, and the view is no longer reserved just for your enjoyment and the little time you did have to enjoy it was wasted on thoughts of arbitrary things beyond your control.

“It’s too cold!” Anya complained and took a step closer as the door closed behind her, lit cigarette in hand as you turned over your shoulder to peer at her lath figure. “I’ve told you before!” She pointed right at you and almost-yelled, “If you’re gonna be out here on the roof all hours of night then at least have the common decency to wear a respectable winter coat! We don’t need people asking questions again like they did in Salem all because you sit out here in the cold all night and refuse to freeze to death!” She grumpily threw her hands in the air and then pulled another burn of her cigarette, earning an odd kind of smile from you.

You can’t help but like Anya, a lot. For all of her complaints, for all of her gruffness, for all of the curse words that so often slip off her tongue with the languid expertise of a woman who’s spent centuries practicing them… your friend Anya is one of the few good ones among those afflicted with your shared curse. It’s why you made her your second in command among the covenant of revenants you rule supreme over.  
“You gonna keep eyeballin’ me like that Lady?” She pulled another drag of her cigarette and furrowed her cat-eyed stare. You’re suddenly aware you’ve been peering at her over your shoulder the whole time, wordlessly.

“My name is Lexa to you, Commander to everyone else, Lady to no one. I’d expect after all these years you would know better, I wouldn’t want to have to put you in the timeout box again. I mean it.” you remind her, staring off into what was a perfectly beautiful undisturbed view five short minutes ago.

You hear her grumble and hiss something under her breath at the mere reminder of the time you committed her to an unmarked grave out in the upstate backwoods for three decades. She was still a newborn at the time, still in her first century, you warned her not to hunt innocents for blood. You warned her and she disobeyed and gave into temptation. You might be the Mother Of The Undead but there has to be rules and ethics. Anya learned her lesson, much as she likes to pretend otherwise, and the next four centuries were spent hunting only the wicked and vile. Organic farming, that’s what Anya calls it.

“And no.” you can’t help but speak again after a brief moment, peering over the knob of your shoulder to see her lean against the stairwell door. “I’m not gonna keep eyeballing you, Anya. I was actually just about to make my way downstairs and get ready… We have an old friend to go and dig up in case you forgot.” you sniff away and dig your hands into the back pockets of your jeans, a little too eager to seem like you’re occupied entirely by the important things to do and places to be.

“Feels like only yesterday we put Raven down there.”

“Well, fifty years flies by when you have thousands ahead of you.” You reply disinterestedly. “The same can’t be said for her. I imagine the last half a century has carved itself into her second by second.”

“She didn’t mean to do what she did you know. What you did wasn’t right Lex. She never should have got put in the timeout box… not for fifty years at least.”

You snap around and stare with the burning depths of hell in your eyes, alight and unable to be otherwise. “What is the second rule on my list?”

“No killing innocents.” Anya mumbled.

“And my first?”

“No innocent women. Ever.”

“She was lucky I didn’t cut her into pieces and scatter her into the fucking wind. You’re lucky I didn’t put you down there with her for not telling me what she did sooner.” You bark and feel your feathers ruffle.

“Where the fuck do you get off acting like you’ve never made a mistake. We all break rule one or two at some point, that’s what it is to have our curse. God knows you did, you must have broke it a hell of a lot more than any other revenant considering they’re your rules in the first place.” Anya snapped and hit you right where it hurts.

“Watch it.”

“I mean it. That woman she took? We were starving that Winter. All while you gladly wasted away trying to find a cure.” She laughed in disbelief at the memory. “That woman’s blood is on all of our hands, yours, god knows mine especially for not convincing you what a stupid idea it was. Raven was a newborn, we should have expected as much—”

“I said enough!” You snap and clamber off the ledge, dusting yourself off and standing straight and tall. “I appreciate Raven Reyes has been a sore spot for you for the last half a century but don’t overstep your place and ruin what I’m sure is to be a very happy reunion.”

“Yes Lexa.” She swallows it down and nods. “Noted.”

“Good.” You stride past her through the door of the roof. “Put Octavia and Luna on the bar tonight.”

“The bar is staying open?” Anya raises a surprised brow.

“They don’t need to see what it looks like when we pull them out of the timeout box. I don’t want to frighten them.” You sigh and rub the back of your neck. “The bar stays open, anything they catch stays in the cellar until I give permission for another cull.”

“I’ll give them the commander’s orders.” Anya agrees and follows behind you off of the rooftop.

 

###

 

You wage war with your dark unruly tresses in the hallway mirror in an effort to make them look neat. The comb always makes it worse, always manages to anger your thick soft curls into more of a frizz. Thankfully, you catch yourself before furious curse words start flying off your tongue and remind yourself it’s only Raven Reyes you’re digging up. She’ll be in a far worse state than your dark thick mane.

Stuck in the mirror’s reflection, confused for a brief moment by the stranger looking back at you — you can’t help but wonder when you started looking old again? There’s creases where there weren’t creases before, and then creases on top of those creases for good measure.

The dark circles you can totally understand. They’ve never truly left you no matter how much blood you gorge on ever since you earned them the hard way with an entire decade of restless nights after she left—

No. You stop yourself immediately and exhale a deep sigh, because your belly still clenches violently at every tiny reminder that she’s gone now, and you despise yourself for that. Hate your shortcomings with such seemingly bottomless depths that it’s almost an artform. Your friends promised you it would get better, they told you stories of other people they knew, how it hurt but those people got back up off the bathroom floor and carried on living. Eventually they stopped telling you stories. Eventually they just stopped altogether, and it became easier to just get up and pretend she never existed than rot in the knowledge that she did. That she’s with him, forever and ever now.

Sometimes the fact there’s not many of your kind, revenants, vampires, the undead, whatever you want to call it, makes it a hell of a lot easier too. There’s some weird peace to be found in solitude, isn’t there? Or at least you convince yourself of that. There used to be hundreds of covenants, maybe even thousands of them. The port cities of Greece and Rome teemed at the edges with revenants like you, using their natural gift to trick the paper-people of this earth that they were gods.

You fell into that little scam too, there was a time the paper-people called you Veritas, Goddess of Truth. You were one of the few to escape the bonfires once the paper-people earned the holy word of the big man upstairs and realised what you really were. Demons to be scourged.

Now, there’s only a few hundred of you left in the world. Small bands of scavengers who have neither the age or ability to create new children of the covenant. In fact, you’re the last one left with that kind of resume. Octavia was your last turn, that was some hundred and twenty years ago now — shortly after you breathed life back into Raven.

After Cos-

After she left. You swore no more. You swore you would bring no more children into the covenant, and, thousands of years from now. Millions maybe. The curse will die with you, Lexa Veritas Woods, last of your covenant.

The cell-phone on your kitchen counter buzzes, a welcomed distraction you decide and shuffle over to the little island.

 

_From: Anyalicious  
Message: Three minutes and twelve seconds and then I’m letting Luna have the wife-beater we saved for you as second helpings._

 

###

 

The wife-beater, a Mr. Leon Grotsky, died a liar to the very end. You gave him every chance to confess his sins before you cleansed his soul, well, you gave him two chances. Two chances is enough. You were hungry.

By the time you wipe the sweet rich remainders off of the corners of your lips, your little convenant looks on in mild admiration and repulsion, simultaneously.

“Did you have to go for his bicep? Not his throat? I thought we didn’t torture them Commander…” Octavia looked off at her own clean kill. A drug-dealer sucked bone dry at the throat, a quick merciful death for an undeserving wicked paper-man.

Your distorted true face, demonic and heinous as it is, reverts back into human form. The black orbs transfigured back into pale green eyes, the hollows of your thin decrepit face now full and blooming with life and youth once again. You don’t look a day over twenty-two, it will probably stay that way for a fortnight or so. Then you’ll feed again.

“You really went to town on him Lexa.” Anya muses too, her face impressed and chuckling.

“I said we don’t torture them. I never said we didn’t make them suffer… unlike you all I have the power of truth. I know when they deserve to hurt right to the very end.” You straighten yourself and relax into the invigoration of a fresh feed. Pompei and Troy explode in your veins, the fire of a hundred cities, the wrath of thousand year old armies coursing through your dry arteries like a rushing flood. This isn’t what life feels like, it’s a poor imitation, but god, it is the best cheap and nasty thrill you know.

And you have seen them all.

“Okay the rest of the covenant has their orders for tonight. You and me have a Raven to catch.”

“There’s no catching, I already did that.” You smirk and lick a drop of blood off of your thumb. “Taming that wild little Raven is the tough job now.”

 


	2. Chapter II

The halogen burn of street lamps stared back at you through the windscreen. The drive was long, and still, not long enough. You sat and made yourself a monolith, a mountain, an unphasable almost-deity that had long outgrown curses like empathy and pity… but nonetheless you sat there in the passenger seat and stewed on the thought of what would be left of Raven when you pulled her out of the ground.

It brings you no joy putting them in the timeout box. Truth is your gift, you see and feel and live in the thickness of sins. Especially your own; torturing yourself with the gravitas of your own wrongdoings is your preferred method of self-harm. It brought you no joy listening to Raven cry out through the wood when the box was lowered to the dirt all those years ago. It brought you no joy living with the reminders of that decision every time Anya ghosted around quietly on birthdays and celebrations—lost  and lonely without her mate. 

It’s an insidious feeling being guilty and envious, simultaneously. You do it plentifully and quietly, living in that strange in between with constant reckless abandon. 

Anya was quiet too during the drive, though she was filled with a different kind of emotion all together; a mixture of excitement and dread—almost like a young girl in love. It’s not too abstract of a description, it’s strange how humanity perseveres beneath the curse. It took you half a millennia before the things that made you ostensibly human began to drip away like rain droplets, eventually all you were left with were the imprints and tracks where that precipitation slipped and ebbed. They’re sparser to be found now since she left—

 _No._ You swallow and stop yourself venturing to that brooding place. The road was bumpy and untrodden as you turned into the unmarked opening, the headlamps dimmed and the engine grumbled quietly under its breath like a dumb bull in the paddock.

“You remember the spot?” Anya raised a brow at you and kept both hands on the steering wheel, and if she had a pulse it would be rushing like the beat of hummingbird wings.

“Do I remember the spot?” You mimicked nasally and rolled your eyes. “Of course I remember the spot. It’s the same spot. Has been for centuries.” You remind pithily, unbuckling your seatbelt. You turn back with a glare before you make it out of the car, grabbing your shovel and eyeing her again. “Are you coming or are you waiting in the car?”

“Just. Fucking stop with the whole ‘I feel and care about nothing’ routine already?” Anya raised her hand and narrowed her stare. “I haven’t seen her in half a century and now I’m about to pull her desiccated body out of the ground. It’s hardly a sweet reunion.” She sighed and rubbed her head. “I could do with a little support, you know?”

“You remember you’re talking to me right? I have absolutely no pity for you right now.” You tell her sternly and get out of the car. The door is nearly slammed close, but then you remember the shovel. You’re hardly going to dig Raven out of the ground with your hands like a bear, and so you dip back down and reach in for the shovel in the back. Anya watches you with merciless disdain, you care little for it. “Look at me like that all you want,” you mumble over the center console and feel around for the second shovel that’s wedged itself somewhere behind the seat. “At least your mate is coming home.” You sigh and grouch.

“So that’s what this is about Lexa?” Anya called after you as she climbed out of the car. “You can’t have Costia so everybody else has to suffer?”

With supernatural speed you close the metres between you in a split second, standing right in front of her with a glare forged in the deepest heats of hell. It emanates from you, the yearning and fury, the amalgamation of it left in Costia’s wake. “If you ever,” You start and stop, swallowing and looking her up and down in disgust. “If you ever mention her again! If you ever remind me of the things I have lost, things that you cannot even _begin_ to understand! I will take from you what you hold most dear and I will scatter it to the fucking wind. Do you understand me?” The growl drips from you like precipitation.

“Yes Commander.” Anya swallowed and submitted, “I understand.”

“Good. Now hurry up, I don’t like being late for appointments.” You turn back on your feet and walk towards the unmarked grave. You could shapeshift if you really wanted to, you could cover the mile distance in the blink of an eye, but walk slowly you do. Consider it an exercise in trying to remain human, another little habit you maintain in an effort not to lose yourself completely. Sometimes, you’re certain that these little rituals are all that stop you losing touch… and so like a child with their comfort blanket, you cling to these little burdens.

Twenty minutes later and you find yourself in a spot that marks fifty years to the day that you last saw Raven. She’s underneath the ground, still there, still alive, barely. You can hear a tiny whimpering sob echo up from her soul beneath the dirt, and the stench of your own sins throttles and chokes you, denying you the right to oxygen. The first two feet are dug out quickly, and again, you could move this mound of earth with the blink of an eye, but, little burdens.

“What’s wrong?” Anya watches you blink rapidly, steadying yourself as you stop for a moment.

“Just, keep digging.” You roll your neck and grab your own shovel again.

There’s movement in the bushes, a flash of white almost. You snap up and barely catch it as it flies behind the overhang and thickets. The smell of your kind is in the air, and it isn’t Anya or Raven, no, this is the smell of a creature not of your clan. It’s like the hint of a scent inside your nostrils — barely there and still not quite enough to convince you.

“Did you see that?” You murmur, furrowing your brow in Anya’s direction.

“I saw nothing.” Anya tells you honestly as her shovel is made to work the soft dirt, and you know it’s the truth. To deceive is a sin and you feel nothing echo from her soul. “Wait, Lexa,” Anya’s voice becomes confused all of a sudden. You look to the spot of dirt she is fixated on and that is when you see it.

Beneath the glare of a flashlight you see the huge shackles that enrapture her coffin, more importantly you see what is wrong with them. The metal is warped and twisted and clawed within an inch of its life. They have endured against what has to be an attack from at least a dozen vampires, strong ones at that.

“They couldn’t get in.” Anya says, dumbfounded. Her fingers blurring to trace around each heavy iron link to make sure none are broken — and the juxtaposition between her now frantic need to know that Raven is safe and untouched still locked inside her prison, is jarring even to you. “Why would they try and take her?!” Anya suddenly throws eyes at you.

“I don’t know but those chains cannot be broken, they are sealed with my blood. We will figure it out later but right now we need to get her out and move, now.” You jump into the pit, your shovel forgone. 

It takes only a moment, your eyes turn a terrifying shade of white while your face becomes elongated and hollow, no longer human. Little burdens are forgone and with barely a wisp of effort you move the entirety of the earth surrounding Raven’s coffin, dumping it some metres away. It takes one quick cut of your palm, one trickle of your black deathly blood upon the chains to unlock them, and with one tug against the dirty wooden lid that has weathered for fifty years, you flip it and set eyes on the dessicated creature trapped within.

She is shrivelled corpse with youthful dark eyes, curled and skeletal within the tight confines of the coffin. Her hand remain bound, and yet still, the inside panels of the wood have been torn and scratched within an inch of their life in Raven’s desperation to be freed. She cannot talk, and the flashlight cast down into her tomb has an elongated high-pitched scream falling out of her terrifyingly hollow mouth. 

She has not seen light in fifty-years and now there is a halogen blaze burning into her face.

“I’m here, I’m here I’m here I’m here,” Anya failed in her attempt to stay calm, her arms slipping around Raven’s skeletal thrashing body. “I’m going to get you food and take you home. Never again my love, I will not fail you a second time.” Anya mumbles and jumps out of the pit with supernatural force, mate in her arms.

You turn just in time to see it. The furious and impressive blaze of white that sears through the thickets like a star burning through the night. For a moment it reminds you of ancient times, the sheer power and strength of it. It reminds you of the days when gods and monsters were not simply fairytales cast onto paper — but living breathing creatures that walked among men.

It has been a thousand years since you saw a Deadlight, and you know that because you killed the last one.

“Anya! Deadlight! On your left!” You shout at her and fly out of the empty grave.

Anya turns just in time to catch the full weight of the angry star that rockets directly at her. She is pummelled into the ground, the white blazing godlet doubling around you like a dragon leaving flames in its wake. The trees burn with the ghost of bright light in the path that this creature leaves, and you are left staring at where it has been rather than where it is going.

You only realise the mistake when you too end up buried on your spine.

In the moment between being tackled and landing on the ground, you see its face, or rather, her face. It’s in a split second, caught in a fraction of time so tiny it cannot be fathomed — that is how fast she moves. But nonetheless you saw her, those pale blue eyes and light blonde hair, teeth curled into a snarl, lips as pink as flowers in spring. The Deadlights were vampires turned by powerful ancients too long after death, cursed spirits that had been to hell and brought back the darkness with them. They were the pitbulls of the old gods, they could not be reasoned or reckoned with, unable to assume any sort of human appearance or acclimate to their surroundings.

And yet this one had a face as lovely as you have ever seen, still full and brimming with a particular kind of darkness forged in the pits of hell no less.

“Lexa!” Anya screams and suddenly appears out thin air, out of breath. “It took Raven! I lost it!” She explodes, eyes and face receding into her natural state, her voice becoming hellish and hungry for the fight.

“Come on, we’ll get her back.” You assure quickly and jump from your feet, allowing your body to rip itself inside out to assume your natural state. There is a roaring growl and a series of small explosions within your body as each molecule of DNA transcends into something ancient and powerful. You are grateful you fed plentifully tonight.

Because tonight, you’re going to kill your first Deadlight in a thousand years.

 

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